Perspective
by Gmariam
Summary: After a difficult experience in the field, Ianto is the one to take care of Jack and offer a bit of perspective—not the other way around. Flipping the post-CC trope…yet again. Rating is for a bit of language.


Perspective

Ianto Jones woke up disoriented, not quite sure where he was or what he was doing there. Or why he was so bloody tired and sore. He opened a dry, gritty eye and groaned, but shut it again as sensation returned in a rush: his head hurt, his neck hurt, his wrists hurt, and his side felt like it was on fire. What the hell had happened?

And then he realized that he was in the Hub, and he was injured. He was wearing jeans, which was certainly not his preferred outfit of choice at work, and he was filthy, covered in dirt and blood, also unusual given he was not usually out in the field.

Yet where had it come from, the blood and pain and—

Oh _god._

Which was when it all came rushing back like a horror movie set against the lids of his eyes: the trip to the country, the seemingly abandoned village, the gruesome clan of cannibals. Being caught, tenderized, and about to be bled.

Cannibals.

Ianto flung a hand over his head and groaned as the memories assaulted him. He must have fallen asleep on the sofa at some point after returning from the nightmare trip to the Beacons. The question was, why hadn't he showered, changed, and gone home?

As he sat up, slowly testing various parts of his body to gage the pain and stiffness, he realized why: he was so sore he could barely move. It had been hard enough getting out of the medical bay after Owen had looked him over; he remembered stopping at the sofa to rest, promising Tosh that he would leave as soon as he felt well enough to get up and drive home. Obviously he hadn't made it, but had fallen asleep on the sofa instead. Someone had laid a blanket over his legs.

Wrapping the coarse wool around his shoulders, Ianto stumbled over to the coffee machine, knowing a caffeine kick was the only way he'd manage to get his clothes off, clean up, and make it home. Then he could fall into his own bed and sleep until the world ended. Checking his watch, he saw that it was past dinner time, but found that even the thought of food at that point was nauseating. He'd have to eat eventually, but not that night.

Ianto started the coffee and glanced around the Hub as he waited. It was dark and quiet, and he was fairly sure he was alone, which was a good thing in spite of having just gone through hell (again). He needed the time to process what had happened out there, to slot being captured and beaten by cannibals planning to eat him into whatever place it merited in the mental file folders of crap life events he'd experienced over the past six months. Then he could lock it away and try to move on (again).

It was strange, though. This was earthbound horror, a human tragedy—not something caused by aliens as per the Torchwood norm. By all rights, it should feel worse, experiencing the darkness of his fellow man turned against him, and yet it did not feel that way. It was as if all the trauma he had lived through already put this new disaster in perspective: he may have just seen the worst the planet had to offer, but he knew from experience that the universe offered far, far worse.

He had seen grim things in research at Torchwood One, heard gruesome stories. They had been nothing compared to the nightmare that was the Battle of Canary Wharf. And even that had paled in comparison to the far more intimate disaster that had been his misguided attempt to save Lisa at Torchwood Three. The possibility of being killed and eaten was horrifying, but when compared to the possibility of being converted into a metal cyborg, trapped in metal forever, cold and unfeeling and in constant pain, death by cannibal stew seemed almost the preferable fate.

Coffee brewed, Ianto poured himself a cup and drank it slowly, allowing it to warm his insides and chase away the lingering visions of blood and gore from Brynblaidd. He would probably have terrible dreams that night, but at least the all-too-human cannibals had been defeated by human means. Cybermen were all but indestructible, and the brief encounter Torchwood One had had with the Daleks that same day had been even worse. Those dreams would haunt him for far longer than the dusty, dirty village in the Welsh countryside.

Finishing his coffee, Ianto set down the mug, stretched his neck, and slowly made his way toward the showers, still moving stiff and awkward. He had a spare change of clothes with him, packed for camping, and a long, hot shower did wonders for his body and mind. He felt almost normal, until he looked in the mirror.

There was a large bruise forming on his forehead, darkening his eyes with shadows even deeper than normal. The injury to his temple had been cleaned and bandaged, but was throbbing where the butt of the rifle had knocked him unconscious. His lips were dry and cracked; he should probably be drinking water and not coffee. Yet what drew his eye more than anything was the tiny knick on his neck, where a meat cleaver had almost ended his life. Not a gun, not a Weevil, not some random bit of alien tech catalogued in the archives, but an ordinary knife wielded by ordinary humans; the irony struck him once more, and panic began to well up in his chest.

Letting his head fall forward as he placed his hands on the sink, Ianto concentrated on calming his suddenly rapid breathing before he hyperventilated. He'd done quite enough of that after Canary Wharf and during his suspension, thank you very much. He closed his eyes and instead thought about Tosh, the bruises on her own neck stark testimony to her determined flight for freedom; she had survived. He thought about Gwen, clutching her side in pain and heartache as she cried silent tears in the car on the ride home; she too had survived. And he thought of Owen, uninjured but obviously rattled due to the severe lack of piss-taking in the medical bay as he'd checked and treated them all. In fact, Ianto couldn't remember ever seeing the doctor so quiet. Even after Ianto's suspension, Owen had laid in thick with the biting comments, as if he was determined to take out all his fear and anger on Ianto.

Finally, he thought about Jack, bursting into the farmhouse on a tractor like some retro action hero dropped into the middle of a slasher flick. Jack had shot every single villager there, yelling the entire time. Gwen had caught Ianto and helped him out of the dirty gag and restraints, but it was Jack that had drawn Ianto's attention. The look of fear, anger, and self hatred on the man's face had been almost mesmerizing in its harsh yet vulnerable ferocity.

Owen had most likely retreated to lick his injured psych in the tangled limbs of a nameless shag or a bottomless pint of beer. Tosh was probably soaking in a bath, escaping to either the blissful silence of wine and candles or the mind-numbing maths she turned to when troubled. Gwen, of course, had Rhys to look after her, though Ianto was not sure how much Gwen could tell Rhys about being shot by human cannibals, or if she even should; still she was not alone, and that was something.

He would do what he always did: tuck it away like an artifact in the filing cabinet of his mind, not denying its existence, but not really looking for it if he didn't need to, even going so far as to avoid it if he could. Talking about the bad things didn't make them easier to accept, it just prolonged whatever pain and anger surrounded them and made them so horrible. Ianto had learned quickly after Canary Wharf that dwelling on it wasn't going to make it unhappen, and because he had had Lisa to think about, he had forced himself to push the trauma into what he now thought of as his secure mental archives in order to function. Maybe it wasn't the healthiest way to deal with life, but it mostly worked, and he would do the same with the Beacons: file it away as something unspeakable that had happened to him (again) and then soldier on.

Of course, he didn't have anyone to take care of this time, no secrets to hide, but he would manage. He had before, and he would again.

Yet what did Jack do after such an experience? Ianto had seen the man's face and knew that Jack had been deeply upset by the events in the farmhouse. It had radiated from him the entire car ride back to Cardiff, not entirely unlike the night he had sent Jasmine to the fairies. Was Jack out losing himself like Owen, or brooding in solitude like Tosh, out on a rooftop somewhere overlooking Cardiff? Did he have anyone to comfort him, like Gwen had Rhys? Or did he simply shut it down, file it away, and stumble forward, like Ianto?

It was that last thought, that Jack was quite likely just as upset as any of them and yet more alone than any of them that pulled Ianto back into himself. He splashed cold water on his face and headed up into the Hub, determined to check on Jack before going home, or least make an attempt, because he could not in good conscience leave Jack on his own after what had happened out there. Jack had supported him through his suspension, however difficult that had been for them both; Ianto owed the man that much, at least.

Dialing Jack's mobile phone, Ianto was surprised to hear it ringing from somewhere in Jack's empty office. Curious, he followed the sound and found it coming from below. Jack—or his mobile —were in the small room where he bunked below his office. Ianto had always wondered why Jack lived at the Hub, why he didn't even try for that semblance of a normal life he was always urging the rest of them to hold on to, especially Gwen. Yet Jack's relationship with Torchwood was long and intimate, and Ianto suspected it was far more complicated as well.

The hatch was open, so Ianto crouched, glancing down into the mostly dark space. One small light appeared to be on. "Sir?" he called. "Jack? Are you down there?"

There was an indistinct mumble that did not sit well with Ianto after all they had gone through. He decided he was within reason to violate Jack's extreme sense of privacy and let himself into the bunk, climbing down the ladder carefully. When he got to the bottom, he glanced around, letting his eyes adjust to the dark before he managed to find Jack sitting in a leather chair in the corner, next to a small table that held a decanter of clear liquid Ianto could smell from across the small room.

"Gin?" he asked, trying not to sound surprised even though he was. "I thought you were more of a scotch drinker."

Jack shrugged loosely. "Found some olives. Sometimes I like 'em dirty."

"Of course you do," murmured Ianto, leaning back against the ladder and studying Jack, unsure of how far gone he might be. "How many then?"

Jack finished the drink in his hand and set it down. "Dunno. A few."

"Why?" asked Ianto, stretching it out. He watched as Jack reached to mix himself another martini, but spilled half of it on the table. With a sigh, Ianto strode quickly across the room and plucked the bottle out of Jack's hands.

"Hey," said Jack, his voice indignant. "I was using that."

"I don't think you need anymore, sir," said Ianto softly. He took the gin and a nearby bottle of vermouth to the ladder, climbed a few rungs, and set them outside on the floor. Then he turned back to Jack, sitting morosely in his chair. Everyone had their own way of dealing with the trauma of Torchwood, but this was not what he had expected from Jack Harkness. Ianto had always thought it far more likely he'd get a call from Owen one day, too liquored up in a local pub to get home. Instead, he was babysitting his boss, apparently off his face on martinis.

"I'll get you some water," Ianto murmured, and he turned toward the ensuite Jack was fortunate enough to have in his small living area. He grabbed a glass of water and a hand towel to sop up the spilled drink.

Handing Jack the water, Ianto quickly cleaned up the mess, tossed the towel back toward the loo, and sat down on the edge of the bed opposite Jack's chair. The other man had still not opened his eyes; perhaps he had fallen asleep, or passed out.

"I didn't drink enough to pass out," Jack murmured, as if reading Ianto's mind. "I didn't really even have that much, and then you took it away." He almost sounded petulant, like a child who had just had a favorite toy taken from him.

"You seem to have had enough," Ianto pointed out.

"It's never enough," Jack mumbled. Ianto hesitated; what did he say to that? He half wanted to pour himself a stiff drink if he was going to have to talk Jack off the ledge. It had only been a fortnight since Jack had lost his friend Estelle and let a young girl run off with fairies. The entire team had been upset with Jack about Jasmine, and only Ianto had talked to Jack as if nothing were different. Really, he was probably the only one of them who understood difficult decisions, heartbreaking loss, and life-changing sacrifice, and even then Ianto knew his own experiences didn't compare to half of what he suspected Jack had lived through. Yet here he was, offering support when the others had left, because once again, he was probably the only one who could.

"Why?" he asked. Jack opened his eyes and studied Ianto for a long while before closing them again.

"Why what?" he asked. He sounded tired, even defeated, and it was not a tone that fit him.

"Why is it never enough?" asked Ianto, even though he could certainly understand why Jack was drinking after what had happened in Brynblaidd. It had been a nightmare for them all; Jack wasn't immune to it just because he was their leader. Ianto had assumed Jack's preferred method of brooding would be a rooftop as opposed to a bottle of gin, but this, somehow, seemed more human. After the difficult decisions Jack had been forced to make recently, it was almost a relief to see Jack feeling and reacting in such a deeply _normal_ way.

Jack took a long, slow breath and rubbed his hands across his face before he sat up and leaned forward. To Ianto's surprise, Jack's eyes were fairly clear, his movements controlled; perhaps Jack hadn't had as many martinis as Ianto had initially thought.

"It's never enough to forget what happened," Jack said softly, watching him closely. Ianto nodded in understanding, because he did: he understood the desire to forget, but he had learned the hard way that it simply wasn't possible. Nothing had dulled the memory of Canary Wharf, and nothing ever would, except perhaps a large dose of Retcon.

"No, it never is, sir," he replied, meeting Jack's gaze. "Nothing ever is, but maybe we're not meant to forget."

Jack eyebrows flew up at that. "Is that what a month off and another near-death experience at Torchwood has taught you?"

"Not really," said Ianto, looking away before focusing on his hands. "To be honest, they're just words. Probably read them somewhere." He glanced toward the ceiling. "And I'll likely go home and do the same thing, even though I know it's pointless."

"Try to forget?" asked Jack, and Ianto nodded. He would try to forget by locking it in the filing cabinet of his mind rather than through sex or drugs or alcohol. He'd tried them all and nothing had worked, and now he had his way of coping. They were silent for a moment before Ianto took a deep breath, plunging into territory they had never discussed: that slippery slope of personal thoughts and feelings.

"What are you trying to forget, sir?" he asked. "You saved us. You're the reason the rest of us aren't dead."

Jack snorted, a surprisingly loud and bitter sound in the tiny confines of the bunker. "I am also the reason you almost died," he pointed out.

"Ah," said Ianto, nodding as he instantly knew what was really bothering Jack. Just as with the fairies, Jack was taking responsibility for something that was completely out of his control. He wasn't as horrified by the experience—he hadn't been captured and beaten, after all—so much as riddled with guilt and anger. "You took us out there, got us involved."

Jack stood and began to pace, obviously too restless to sit anymore if he wasn't allowed the natural sedative of the gin. "Exactly. It's all my fault, and sometimes I just wish I could forget that responsibility."

Ianto crossed his arms over his chest as he considered Jack's words. "Is it your fault those villagers eat people every ten years? That they stole our SUV? That they captured us?"

Jack glanced sideways at him without answering.

"Well then, I'll answer," said Ianto. "It's not your fault. You took us out to investigate a possible case. It was fucked up. We got in trouble. You fixed it. End of story." He stood and motioned to the bed. "You should get some rest, sleep it off."

Jack waved him away. "I'm not going to sleep it off, Ianto!" he exclaimed. "I'll just wake up scr—" He stopped himself, clearly frustrated. "You don't understand."

"Explain, then," said Ianto calmly, even though he really did. Jack needed to talk, however, and this was something that Ianto could do to help, and usually quite well: if he was talking with someone who was upset, he instinctively countered it with as much calm support as he could. Rarely did he join in the hysterics; even more rarely did he become upset himself. The confrontation with Jack over Lisa was one of few times when he had lost control. Frankly, he was surprised that he was able to maintain his composure right then, because his own panic was so recently filed away, and some small part of him agreed with Jack's assessment, even if the logical part of his brain knew none of it was really Jack's fault. Yet at that moment, Jack needed him. Ianto had needed Jack to swan in to the rescue earlier, and now Jack needed Ianto to simply be there and listen.

Jack stared at him for a long time before letting his head fall with a sigh. He leaned against the wall and was silent as he apparently gathered his thoughts.

"I didn't think it would be anything like his," he started.

"Of course you didn't," said Ianto, finally sitting back down. "Who would?"

"No, it's not just that," said Jack, his words dripping with guilt. "I didn't think we'd find _anything, _Ianto. I wanted this to be a chance for us to get out of the Hub, bond in the Welsh countryside, come together as a team after all the shit we've gone through these last two months. Bad enough to find that body and lose the SUV, but everything after that was just one big cock up after another, and it's all my fault."

He sounded so frustrated and upset that Ianto did not respond, preferring to allow Jack the time and space to let it out. He simply watched the other man, who finally raised his eyes to see if Ianto was still listening; when he found open acceptance, Jack continued.

"You were brilliant with the SUV, you know," said Jack, a half smile curling his lips. "I probably didn't even say so, but you were. And then I sent you and Tosh off on your own to find it, and you got captured."

"Again, no way you could have known that," Ianto murmured.

"Maybe," Jack sighed, letting his head fall back against the wall with a dull thud. "Once we found the boy and knew that something bad was going on, Gwen and Owen kept telling me we needed to go back for you, only I told them you could handle it." He paused and met Ianto's eyes. "Both of you, even though haven't been out in the field as much."

Ianto glanced away. "I tried, sir," he said, hoping to keep his own guilt at bay, that he had failed and been captured, then failed to escape. He'd already filed it away, and right now it was Jack's turn, not Ianto's, to let it all out; Ianto could fall apart some other time, preferably alone and in the comfort of his own flat.

"And again," said Jack, his voice earnest now. "You were brilliant. I know you were scared, but you held it together, Ianto. You fought back, you got Tosh out, and right now you are dealing with what happened out there far better than I am."

"I don't have any choice," Ianto shrugged, studying his hands again to avoid the effusive compliments, in part because it wasn't true. He wasn't actually dealing with it, he had simply pushed it aside and buried it in his filing cabinet. "Life goes on and all that bullshit."

Jack laughed bitterly as he threw himself back into the chair. "Isn't that the cruel truth. Especially for Torchwood."

"Especially for Torchwood," Ianto echoed. They sat there in silence again. Ianto couldn't help but glance at the hatch, and Jack caught him.

"You can leave if you want to," he said softly. "You don't have to stay here for me. I know I'm bad company on days like this."

"Actually, I was thinking of getting that gin," Ianto replied dryly.

Jack offered a small smile, the rare one Ianto had only seen once or twice before, the one that was real and not a cover-up for all the secrets and pain he suspected Jack hid with bluster and bravado. "I have another glass," Jack offered.

"Nope," said Ianto, shaking his head. "Won't make it go away."

"I suppose not," murmured Jack with a sigh.

"And it won't change the facts, either: you did what you had to do, and nothing that happened otherwise was your fault."

Another long silence was finally punctuated by Jack standing again and gesturing wildly at Ianto. "How can you say that? You, of all people? You were the one with the most to lose!"

"We were all captured," Ianto pointed out, taking a deep breath to stay calm as Jack's intense distress rolled over him in powerful waves.

"You were the one they beat!" Jack exclaimed, his voice rising once more. "You were the one they tied up and tenderized, the one they were about to bleed when I finally got there." He stopped and stared at Ianto with wide eyes. "Jesus, Ianto. What if I hadn't found you in time? How can you be so relaxed about this? Don't you realize what almost happened?"

Ianto stood abruptly and pointed a finger at him. "Of course I do," he snapped, unable to hold back any longer without some sort of release. "And I'm hanging on by a thread here, Jack, so don't break it. I don't want to go there, not now. I don't want to start over."

Jack was standing only inches from him, breathing heavily. "Start over?" he asked, obviously confused.

"I know exactly what happened out there, Jack. I lived it, I felt it. And I'm filing it away and moving on because I have to, or I will _break_." He took a ragged breath and plunged on. "I spent a month putting my life back together after Lisa died, and I'm not going to let the extremely questionable culinary tastes of a group of backwoods villagers ruin that. Not now. Because at the end of the day, I've seen worse. I lived worse. I've felt worse." He stopped and stepped away, his heart racing. "And so have you."

Jack's eyes flickered around his face. "What can possibly be worse than being eaten by your own people?" he asked softly.

"Being converted to something less than human. Losing someone you loved to it. Losing everyone you knew to it." Ianto threw his words at Jack, desperate to make his point even if it hurt them both to hear it. "Watching someone you love give up and lose themselves to it. Betraying people you care about and respect to try to save them from it. And then living with the memories and the guilt and the shame _every single day_ for the rest of your life."

Ianto had never spoken such words out loud to Jack—or anyone else, for that matter. But that was the truth of it: of what he had experienced and lost, and the perspective it had given him. There were far worse things than what they had seen in the Beacons. Ianto had lived them, and he was fairly sure Jack had lived them as well. He was just too consumed by his guilt to realize that at the end of the day, what had happened in Brynblaidd was not only out of his control, but one small moment of madness in a universe far more cruel than any of them had ever dreamed. They were lucky, in a way, that it hadn't been worse.

"It's not your fault," Ianto repeated like a mantra. He took Jack's arm and guided him toward the bed; Jack was too stunned to resist. He undid Jack's braces and belt and tossed them toward the chair, then unbuttoned Jack's shirt and added it to the pile. Though he briefly considered a comforting embrace or even a lingering kiss, Ianto knew he could not go there. They were not in that place anymore, not after all that had happened the horrible night that Lisa had been discovered. They might feel it physically—Jack was staring at him with dark eyes, his lips slightly apart as if waiting for Ianto to claim him, and Ianto felt the undeniable urge to lean forward and have him—but it would not fix anything, just like drinking would not let them forget.

With a barely perceptible shake of his head, Ianto gently pushed Jack down onto the tiny bed where he slept. He took off Jack's boots and set them at the foot of the bed, then pulled the blanket over Jack, tucking him in like a small child. All the while he kept repeating his mantra, changing it when he stepped back and gazed down at Jack.

"It's not your fault, Jack," he said, reaching over to brush the hair from Jack's exhausted face. "You saved us. You saved me." He let his hand linger on Jack's cheek. "Again."

Jack turned into Ianto's hand, and Ianto could feel the other man's chin quivering. He couldn't resist a kiss to Jack's forehead, knowing Jack would do the same for any of them, and then he turned to leave, dousing the light as he made his way to the ladder. Jack's voice called out to him in the darkness.

"You did good out there, Ianto," he said, and Ianto heard the raw emotion in the other man's voice. He turned so Jack could see his face.

"So did you, Jack."

"No one ever tells me that," Jack said softly, once again sounding so childlike that it almost broke Ianto's heart. No one should feel such loneliness, so much pain.

"I believe I just did, sir," said Ianto.

There was a heavy sigh from the bed. "I'm not a good leader, not really."

"You are, Jack. You just won't let yourself believe it when someone gets hurt."

"I don't want anyone to get hurt," Jack said. "I'm supposed to protect you."

"You can't always protect us," Ianto pointed out. "And perhaps the mark of a strong leader is believing in his people, in what he taught them, and having faith that they will do their job and survive."

Jack did not respond, and Ianto started up the ladder.

"Ianto?" he asked.

"Yes, sir?"

"Are you okay?"

Ianto nodded. "I'll be all right." A pause. "Will you?"

"Maybe if you keep telling me I will."

"You'll be all right, Jack," Ianto replied almost automatically, though he certainly believed it. Jack Harkness was one of the strongest men he knew. "Get some rest."

"You too. And Ianto?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You'll be all right, too."

Ianto smiled at the honest belief he heard in Jack's voice. "I suppose I will, sir. We don't really have a choice, do we?"

"No, we don't. I'll see you tomorrow."

Ianto cocked his head. "I thought you told us to take the day off."

He saw Jack open his eyes and turn his head toward the open hatch. "Then I'll come check on you, maybe bring something to eat."

Ianto smiled to himself as he left. "Just make sure it's vegetarian," he said, and he was glad to hear Jack laugh.

"I will. Good night, Ianto."

"Good night, sir."

"And Ianto?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, Jack. See you tomorrow, then."

Ianto climbed out of the small room and left Jack's office. He powered down the lights and computers, grabbed his spare coat and car keys, and left the Hub through the tourist entrance. The cool night air coming off the Bay slapped him in the face, refreshing and awakening him. He walked slowly to the car park, his thoughts less on the difficult day he had just survived and more on the man to whom they all ultimately owed their lives.

Ianto had called Jack a monster not that long ago, and in that moment, at that time, he had believed it with every fiber of his being. He had gradually come to understand and accept the necessity of Jack's actions that dark night, though forgiveness for them had been less easy. It was hard to forgive a man when you could not sense his remorse, could not believe in his regret. It was hard when the man hardly seemed human at times.

Yet Ianto had just seen without a doubt that Jack felt such things and felt them deeply: guilt, grief, regret, remorse, anger, pain. Jack was indelibly human, though he distanced himself from them so often that it was easy to doubt it. Yet that night Jack had let down his guard and allowed Ianto to see the truth. Why Jack trusted him with such knowledge, Ianto would probably never know. He did know, however, that everything he had said was true: Jack would be all right. He was a good leader, their leader, and Ianto would follow him, knowing that Jack would do his best by his people, do anything for them, including shoot down a farmhouse of cannibals.

And he would do anything for Jack, even tuck him into bed if it meant Jack retained a bit of that humanity he tried so hard to deny. Because in the end, it was their humanity that kept them going through whatever life—or the Rift—threw at them, whether from their own planet or from beyond. It took perspective to see each experience for what it was, and though Ianto had put the Beacons in perspective, now he had something else to file away as well: Jack, and Ianto's new perspective of their enigmatic leader and the burden he carried so stoically for them all.

It was a perspective that Ianto suspected would change more than just his everyday view of his boss. It would likely change their entire relationship. Yet as he started his car and made his way home, Ianto decided that this was all right. He was ready to move on from what had happened with Lisa. He was ready to be a real part of the team now, to get out into the field more. He was ready to be there for them, and most importantly, for Jack. It had taken a beating at the hands of cannibals to put things into perspective, but now that he had, he knew it was all meant to be.

He would be all right. Again.

* * *

Author's Note:

My friend and beta Tamaar said something last week about once again flipping that Countrycide trope where Jack takes Ianto home and tucks him into bed. She wondered why Ianto never tucked Jack into bed. Certainly seems like Jack to be pretty down on himself for getting them all into that mess, so I ran with it. I didn't end up using your brilliant line, dear, but I do hope you enjoy how that particular conversation inspired this scene. And I do hope it flips the trope as requested. Let's do it again sometime. ;)


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